


Roam

by HDHale, terminaltongues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fire, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminaltongues/pseuds/terminaltongues
Summary: The continent is separated into twelve tribes. The rest is unclaimed territory- dangerous.Peter and Stiles run.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Roam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956025) by [HDHale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale). 



> A million thanks to Abby, my beta, and Harry, the illustrator for this story. Both have been incredibly encouraging and supportive during the process of planning and writing this story. 
> 
> Check out the [Beautiful art](http://hd-hale.tumblr.com/post/174978264129/roam-by-terminaltongues-the-continent-is)
> 
>  
> 
> TW- mild descriptions of panic attacks and nightmares

Peter smells the body before he sees it. He had decided to pass through the woods instead of trekking across the open path by the river to avoid running into wandering villagers and other prowling creatures. As an alpha, Peter is stronger than the average werewolf, but traveling without a pack is a reckless endeavor.

The body’s scent is rich with dirt and sooty with death. Peter should keep walking, but he doesn’t. The sound of the twittering birds and the rustle of rodents in the brush is dim against the faint thudding heartbeat that catches his ear. Perhaps Peter truly is reckless or perhaps the loneliness is turning him weak, but Peter can’t help but bend towards it. He follows it deeper into the woods where the earth dips and bleeds into the remnants of a muddy pond. At the opposite end of the pond, a cave flashes its dark mouth. Lying at its entrance is a mangled body.

Peter’s gaze tracks the human’s scratched and ruined bare feet up to his legs, visible through torn and bloodied trousers to the human’s bare chest, pale in contrast to the dark red of his weeping wounds. When he finally reaches the man’s face, he is surprised to see a pair of heavy-lidded eyes staring back at him. Even beneath the dirt and blood, Peter can identify the glow of youth on the human and the spark of life in his honey-colored eyes.

They stare at each other, each curious in their own regard.

Beyond his physical scent, Peter can’t get a strong read on him. He can sense the faintest whiff of pain and anguish, but it is tucked beneath a heaviness Peter doesn’t care to lift. He smells on the brink of death. At this point, Peter is well accustomed to this scent and the way it teeters back and forth on the precipice of existence. In a few hours, this boy could be a corpse and those honey-colored eyes could extinguish with a flicker. The boy seems to know this and instead of balking at the sight of Peter’s glowing red eyes and contorted beta form, he stares back and blinks languidly.

Peter supposes he should leave and find a place to rest for the night. No doubt other creatures will be revealing themselves as the night ascends and the safety of daylight abandons him. He doesn’t want the lingering scent of death trailing after him. Yet.

Yet, Peter doesn’t leave.

Since the fire, his brain has been a narrow channel through which only primal thoughts pass. Eat, sleep, run. Beyond that, he can’t access the part of him that strives for more-that asks why and that develops plans beyond the next meal. When he looks at the boy, his wolf recedes from inside him, and for an instant, Peter feels like he can see clearly. When the instant passes, a new thought settles in its place: _P_ _ack_.

An alpha without a pack is like a table without legs. He has no stability nor grounding. He is floating. The boy’s face is dim with death, but the sliver of a chance that the bond might settle between them excites his wolf and encourages him into action

He moves closer, holding eye contact with the dying boy and comes to rest until he is standing over him. Honey eyes stare back at him, watching, but not reacting as Peter bends over and pulls his body up from its sprawled-out position and drags him into the mouth of the cave.

Peter props him up against the cave’s wall, careful not to irritate his wounds. The boy seems resigned. He lies slumped against the cave wall, his heartbeat heaving slowly in his chest. Not even Peter crouched up next to him, sniffing curiously at his neck has much of an effect on him.

Peter pulls back after his curiosities have been satisfied and the primal, logical part of his brain concludes that this boy has an hour, maybe two, at most before his heart slows to a stop and his human body begins to deteriorate. But Peter doesn’t leave. He doesn’t save the boy further misery and slit his throat. There is a minuscule part of him that aches at the sight of the dying form.

_“Go,”_ Talia’s phantom voice whispers in his ear. _“Leave the boy, abandon him like you abandoned us. The world will not do you favors for this. Leave him. Leave him-”_

“No!” Peter roars. It’s the first word he’s spoken in weeks.

The boy’s gaze flickers over to him, honeyed-eyes peering blearily beneath nearly-shut eyelids.

“No,” he repeats, quieter. He slides closer, dim-torched eyes trailing him as he lifts the boy’s forearm. His dirtied fingers flip-flop back and forth with lifeless rhythm.

He lifts his mouth slowly, exposing his extended canines and mimes biting. 

The boy looks unimpressed.

“I’ll bite?” It comes out a question rather than a threat.

The boy stares back, eyes clouded.

“Can you speak?”

The boy blinks.

“Close your eyes,” Peter commands. The boy’s eyes lock on to Peter’s, seeing through him. Peter can hear the dramatic spike of his heartbeat before the boy’s eyes flutter shut. Peter pauses a moment to note that the boy looks peaceful, looks at rest.

It doesn’t last. Peter smiles grimly, raises the boy’s wrist to his mouth and bites.

 

* * *

 

Peter never thought to ask Talia what it felt like to add a member to the pack. Their pack had been so large that the network of bonds between them felt like strings. At points the strings would vibrate with emotion or warning, alerting Peter to his pack’s thoughts, but it was never stronger than an echo.

When the bond between Peter and the boy snaps into place, Peter is nearly thrown backward with the force of it. The boy has passed out and is lying slumped. His wounds are beginning to knit themselves closed, slowly but surely. The bond feels like a tangible thing, a direct pipeline from Peter’s heart to the boy’s, like a hot metal rod that twists and writhes with both of their emotions beating in time with their hearts. Despite the weakened state of his new beta, Peter feels stronger.

For the first time in weeks, Peter shifts fully. He’s been trapped in his beta form, his human side and wolf side not allowing him to settle. Now, though, he shifts into a large, black, sleek wolf. He rolls out and stretches, reveling in this form. He suppresses the urge to howl, not wanting to alert any creatures of his whereabouts this late in the evening, but he feels it alive inside of him giddy with new power.

Instead, he curls up next to his beta, lying his head on the boy’s thigh. In this form, it is harder for nightmares to chase him in his sleep. Tonight, Talia will be at rest with the dead and his sleep will be one of silence and darkness. It embraces him with welcome.

 

* * *

 

The boy doesn’t seem surprised when he wakes up to find a hulking, black wolf on him. Peter has been awake for a while but remains curled up, curious to see what the boy will do. When he slips into consciousness he startles, blinking down at Peter with wide eyes and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then thinks better of it and stops.

Peter tugs at the bond, experimentally. The boy frowns and brings a hand to his chest. If Peter were in his human form, he might smirk, but instead, he nudges him with his nose-prodding, commanding. Peter thinks the boy will understand, thinks if he survived the bite that close to death, he might survive as a wolf. He tugs again at the bond. The boy rolls away, hand still pressed to his chest. His eyes are blank in a way that suggests grief swims just beneath the surface of them. He prowls closer and nudges him again.    

When the boy doesn’t react, Peter debates killing him. He knows that killing the beta will give him a power rush. His wolf shirks at the idea but isn’t opposed to pushing the advantage.  _Pack_  it seems to scream. Peter moves again, determined, and this time he’s met with a hand at his head. Peter growls at the disrespect and is about to bite, but he doesn’t get the chance because suddenly the boy is gone.

In his place stands a wolf, smaller than himself and streaked with gray and brown fur. The wolf has glowing blue eyes. The dewy morning sun filters into the cave and casts them in a milky light. 

Without having to be told, the wolf goes belly-up. Instinctively, he seems to know that Peter is his alpha and that they are linked now, a bond stronger than blood.

Peter settles a paw on his beta’s chest, pleased.

 

* * *

 

   

They don’t speak. Peter has nothing to say to him. They hunt together, bodies in sync even when their minds are oceans apart. They tear through the forest as wolves, weaving in out and of trees and leaping over streams and fallen branches. They bait and attack like they were born for it, teasing their prey into the open and then ripping into them without a moment’s hesitation. Peter howls in delight as they tear through an elk, knocking his head against his beta, reveling in the playful bark he gets in response.

It’s not real communication. They’re just sharing in the communal joy, the pure instinct and pleasure of the hunt. When they are finished eating, they turn back into their human selves and the world seems to flatten out into its grey, dreary self punctuated only by those wide, sad eyes that bear into Peter but say nothing.

Peter picks up on the shifts of feeling from the boy occasionally and gives him the space he needs. He doesn’t even know the boy’s name, but he suspects if he was to break the silence that has been solidified between them, it might snap them both out of their shells and neither of them is ready for that.

It is a quiet life, and for a while it sustains them. Peter is too busy chasing his own demons away to bother to court his beta’s, but eventually, even the revisiting of his woes tires him. The desire to expand, to secure territory and fight builds in him. He is thirty-years-old. He will not live the rest of his life on the run.

These thoughts plague him as he slips into sleep. The shift is a taxing process, one that takes as much as it provides; they mainly hunt and cover large distances as wolves and settle as humans. Sometimes, after a long day, they will curl up next to each other while still in wolf form and sleep. It is the only time they touch. On those nights, Peter always sleeps better as if the proximity to another heartbeat strengthens his own, and the sound of their thudding life between the two of them chases away the shadows hovering in his mind.

Tonight, however, they sleep as humans, and Peter can do nothing to keep the nightmares from crawling into his brain. Talia’s sooty face stares at him, warbled and streaky in his mind. Her silence contrasts with the hideous screams of their pack around them- burning, bleeding, dying. They cry for help, cry for their alpha, but Talia remains stony through it all.

Peter wakes with a start, heart pounding in his chest. He sucks in a breath and tries to calm his erratic breathing. He looks up to find the boy sitting across from him. His legs are tucked in front of him, his elbows propped on his knees, and his head propped in his hands. His eyes are rich with curiosity. Neither of them says anything, but when Peter looks down he notices long, shaky letters have been carved into the dirt.

The boy’s eyes follow his gaze and he catches Peter’s eyes, smiling grimly but saying nothing. Peter traces a finger over the indent in the earth, pulling at the curve of the ‘s’ and the straight edges of the ‘t’. It’s just one word, but Peter understands.

His heartbeat has settled and his breath comes to him without defiance. They will get an early start on the day this morning. Peter dismantles the fire they built, erasing any sign of them ever having been there. He spares a final glance at the word before smearing it back into the earth. Peter locks eyes with his beta and suddenly they are shifted and running. His mind is quieter like this, fluid and smooth, and yet he can’t help the way those crookedly drawn lines flash across his mind as they hunt.

    _Stiles_.

 

* * *

 

 

The boy’s demons, _Stiles’_ demons haunt him in different ways. Peter doesn’t ask and Stiles doesn’t tell but it’s clear when he is suffering.

He gets panic attacks. He’s always away when he gets them. At first, Peter thinks it’s a coincidence, but then he begins to recognize the signs before they happen. Stiles recedes into himself, goes quiet and unnaturally still. The pack bond becomes erratic and choppy as if all of Stiles’ emotions, too, were taking cover beneath his skin and hiding where they couldn’t escape. They brewed there, dangerous and giddy with their desire to make an exodus from the blackness of Stiles’ thoughts. Peter senses that Stiles recognizes the signs too, and instead of saying anything, he’ll disappear staying away for hours at a time. The first time he did it, Peter wondered if his beta might not find his way back.

It is only when Stiles deems he has gone far enough from Peter, far enough from the bond, do the floodgates open. Distance has no effect, and the pack bond rewires with a vengeance. Whether Stiles knows it or not, he flushes all the kept-in emotions down the pack bond into Peter until Peter feels like he’s in the boy’s skin, shaking in phase with the vibrating panic that wracks him. When it’s over and Stiles has calmed down, he’ll wander back into camp, barely glancing at Peter before curling up and going to sleep. He usually wipes his cheeks, but Peter can always smell the salty tracks left in their wake. He lets the boy be and curls into his own sleep praying it is one of silence.

   

* * *

 

 A year comes and goes with little consequence. They traverse the continent and its endless dips and valleys. They sleep side-by-side most nights, tracking breaths like heartbeats and letting the rhythm of their symbiotic existence dictate when they push each other and when they pull. 

Peter can feel Stiles healing. His panic attacks become far and few between. These days when the familiar storm begins to brew in his mind, permeating between them like something tangible and sick, Stiles clings to Peter. He is never more than a foot away, the streaked fur of his wolf brushing up against them as they run in sync with the earth as it turns on its axis.

Peter watches Stiles heal. He watches the way his brooding turns to joy. Mourning howls bleed into playful barking. He’ll tackle Peter from the side as they run, yelping and giddy when Peter pins him, pleased by the attention. Peter, in turn, gives him what he wants. He gives him his body to lie upon or next to, he gives him the quiet space to heal the still jagged parts of his soul. 

Peter watches, but he does not follow. He is not so young anymore, not so naive as to believe the world will forgive him for trying. Peter watches how when they pass the edge of a cliff, the rushing river reflects the sunset- an orgy of purples, pinks, and reds all groping and kissing each other for attention, for space on the fiery expanse of the sky. He watches as Stiles pauses, shifting from wolf to man as smoothly as if he were born to this life. He watches as Stiles looks out, eyes wide with wonder before turning back to Peter. His mouth breaks into a smile, somehow brighter and more stunning than the sunset. It catches Peter off guard and leaves him momentarily struck.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles says. His voice is rough with disuse, deep and heavy. Just like that, he releases his first words back to Peter. Just like that, they land upon his ears like a gift, blossoming rich and endless as they flush through his body.

“It is,” Peter agrees.

Stiles nods, satisfaction dripping down the bond mixed with a thread of joy. It feels as though Peter has been doused in honey. Stiles turns back to the sunset, cackling and whooping as if he has just discovered it for the first time. Peter hangs back, smile private and hidden from his beta.

Peter watches as Stiles heals, but he does not follow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Once Stiles starts speaking, he doesn’t stop. Whatever part of him that he put to rest in his first few months with Peter is now awake. When they aren’t in wolf form, he is commenting on the trees and the quality of the light and the dying embers, waxing poetry about the bugs and the corpses of their kills. His babbling seems to transcend even the dullest of moments.

Peter debates killing him just for a moment of silence, but just as easy as Stiles was folded into their two-person pack, his new quirks are absorbed and soon it is as if Stiles has always been a spastic chatterbox.

“Those clouds look like two bears fighting, wouldn’t you say?”

They are supposed to be collecting kindling for the fire, but instead, Stiles is trailing him like a puppy, dragging his feet and kicking at loose twigs. They bend before giving a satisfying snap beneath his bare, calloused feet.

“I wouldn’t,” Peter returns, deadpan.

 “You’re not even looking up,” Stiles complains. Another twig snaps beneath his foot. If he keeps it up, Peter suspects he’ll get a splinter between his toes. He doesn’t feed Stiles another response to work with, but his beta doesn’t seem bothered.

It is going to take more than a sunset to make him as forthcoming as his beta. While Stiles’ wounds seem to be healing, Peter’s fester in his nightmares, edging him towards something rash and destructive. Even with Stiles grounding him, he wonders how long he will dangle near the edge before he loses himself completely. Stiles is a torch in the darkness, but the darkness will find a way to snuff it out. This, Peter is certain of.

“What is that?” Stiles asks. The playful lilt in his speech turns itself into something serious and alert. Peter looks up, blinking at the gap in the trees in the distance and the tall, blocky shapes that peer through. Peter tightens the bond, unconsciously pulling Stiles close. His nerves turn on end.

“It’s a village.”

The village is a ghost-town. Husks of homes, gardens, benches, and statues litter the land, but no people populate it. Shadows of human emotions and scents linger on the wood and stone of the structures.

    “What happened here?” Stiles marvels aloud, running his fingertips on the edge of a wooden bench next to a man-built sandpit as if when he pulls his fingers off he might find a fingerprint of the chemosignal left in its wake. Wandering in and out of the different houses and huts, Stiles is surprised to find some of them still furnished. It is as if the villagers were there one day and then gone the next.

    Peter watches Stiles explore the village perched atop one of the wooden benches in the center of the village. From his position, he has a good vantage point of the surrounding bush. He keeps his eyes and ears alert for the both of them letting his oblivious beta immerse himself in the sensations of a lost people.

    “Where do you think they went?” Stiles asks, voice warbled and distant. Peter casts his gaze upon him, curious. He doesn’t seem to be asking for the purpose of getting a response. During moments like these, Peter wonders where his thoughts travel. Where do they go to ruminate in imagery from the past?

    “Somewhere safe,” Peter supplies. Stiles’ eyes flicker over to him, surprised like he forgot Peter was there.

    “Is there such a place?” Stiles asks in that same voice, floating and eerie.

    Peter ignores his question.

    “We’ll stay here tonight.”

    Stiles waves his assent in Peter’s general direction before wandering off.

    “I’m going hunting,” he pauses to say, turning to look at Peter. His eyes skim over his form as if they were passing through him.

    The bond tugs on him, begs him to follow, to ask what is floating beneath the surface of his beta’s mind, but he doesn’t. He sits on the bench with his legs folded and his chin propped in his hands, watching. Stiles’ figure is soon absorbed into the deep, green folds of the forest.

 

* * *

****

    Peter is arranging two bed mats in the most inconspicuous house he can find when the bond explodes with heat before going deadly silent. In a moment, Peter has dropped the bedding, shifted into wolf form and is tearing into the woods.

    He finds Stiles lying glassy-eyed and convulsing in front of a tall row of bushes. Bright, pink berries glitter teasingly against the green, inviting Peter to pause. Dread fills his stomach as he checks the size and color of the leaves on the bush.

    Peter curses.

    He barely sees the smear of pink juice on Stiles’ hand and mouth before he drops down and promptly shoves his finger down Stiles’ throat. Stiles jerks forward and retches. The substance that comes out is a nasty mix of pink and black. Stiles coughs and chokes, but Peter gives him little time to recover before he’s doing it again. He forces Stiles to retch until the boy is dry heaving, a hand weakly trying to push Peter away. All the while, his golden eyes, watery and cloudy, plead with Peter to stop.

    “Poison,” is all he offers.

    Stiles groans and falls to his side, curling up away from the vomit. His body is wracked with shudders. It will be for a while. It is a nasty trick human villages play to help protect themselves from wandering creatures. They lace strains of wolfsbane, mistletoe, and other toxic plants and oils into the earth to poison the plants that grow from them. To be safe, they shouldn’t eat anything within a five-mile radius of the abandoned village. If Stiles was not incapacitated, Peter would have made them hightail it out of there. Any creature of the night would make him feel better than this eerie, empty village.

    The urge to protect, to run and find a cave or other isolated place to tuck Stiles away in, pulls at him. His wolf is a howling mess of anger, clawing inside of him demanding a fight, wanting a human or wolf or chimera to tear into to blame for hurting his beta. He presses the thoughts away and instead pulls Stiles into his arms, ignoring the groans of protest, and carries him back into the village to take shelter in their hut. He places Stiles gently on the sleeping mat.

    Stiles will heal. The berries are meant to threaten not to kill. Still, Peter should find him some water and speed up the process. Stiles will probably complain about his sore throat, but he’ll get over it. Peter debates whether it’s safe enough to leave Stiles and if the river near the village might also be poisoned when he realizes Stiles is speaking.

“Tell… tell-” Stiles gasps, drawing Peter away from his thoughts. His hand shoots out and latches on to Peter’s wrist, his extended claws digging into the skin. His eyes flash between their natural gold and electric blue. His lack of control is a side effect of the wolfsbane. Stiles’ words are too garbled for Peter to understand. He leans in closer until his ear is level with Stiles’ mouth and his chest.

    “A story,” he begs.

    Peter pulls away, frowning. His mind is a forest of nightmares, not stories, nothing he would ever want to roll off of his tongue and into the mind of another. Yet, Peter can feel Stiles burning up through the bond. He knows that the burning is a sign that the body is burning out the mix of poisons, but the sight of him, sweating and bright- almost glassy with discomfort and pain- withers Peter’s resilience.

    “Tell me” Stiles starts again, his voice a bare rasp. Peter places a finger on his lips, silencing him, grimacing as if the shredded quality of Stiles’ voice was paining him to hear.

    “Ok.”

    Peter settles on the other mat, lying back and folding his arm behind his head to prop it up. He stares at the ceiling, careful not to make eye contact with Stiles before he begins.

    “Myth tells us that the world was born of a goddess who turned herself into a tree.” Stiles snorts and Peter shoots him a look.  “The tree’s roots grew and grew until they began to knit together to form the earth, the mountains, and the sky. From the goddess’ branches fell seeds that blew across the new land in the wind. Each seed carried a creature- elk, fish, human, wolf, chimera- they all spilled from her branches until the land was rich with life. As time passed, the creatures began to fight and bleed into chaos. They fought over land and mates and power poisoned by greed. The goddess was sad to see her seeds- her children- murder and destroy. In her grief, her branches and leaves began to die, turning to ash as they fell to the earth. Ash covered the ground, suffocating her poisoned children. For a while, all was silent. Then, slowly plants began to push through the soot followed by the fingers of infants. They flowered and blossomed, christening the world reborn.”

    It is the creation myth Peter was told when he was a child, one that he knows by heart. Stiles’ smile has gone dreamy, his pain soothed by Peter’s words. Peter waits, expecting Stiles to drift into sleep.

“More,” he calls, voice low.

Peter battles a smile. “Don’t be greedy.”

“More,” he repeats, unabashed.

Peter makes a point of sighing in annoyance. He scours his brain for other fables or stories that might have hung around from his meager childhood. He sifts through them lazily until an image flashes bloody and bright in his mind. Peter slams the memory away, shaken and caught off guard.

“Peter?” Stiles calls.

Peter closes his eyes, his heart pounding. He needs to get a grip. He opens his mouth, trying to recall the softer of his memories to share, but the jagged things in his brain choke him, pushing themselves like black sludge up his throat. The words are pouring out of him before he can stop them.

“There are twelve tribes of the land. Twelve flowers that sprouted out of the ash. Each grew until they were hundreds strong living in peace and harmony while the rest of the world grew and fell back into chaos. They stayed perfect as the day they budded from the earth, living in safety.”

Stiles is quiet. They both feel how the air has shifted between them as Peter speaks, his voice low and lilting.

“A thousand years passed like this- the twelve tribes living in bliss while the world around them shifted and evolved, saw murders and war and famine and dust. After a thousand years, the leaders of the tribes gathered, sad to see the state of chaos that their world had become. As a compromise, they offered solace to any pack, regardless of species or caste. If a pack large enough could be built, the council would grant them into the alliance. For years, no one came close. Humans, chimeras, werewolves, banshees- they all found a way to start wars or disputes so that no one group might see peace. Until...”

Peter pauses, realizing how labored his breathing has become. Stiles watches, his eyes torches in the fading light.

“Until?” he prods.

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, swallowing his pain like glass.

“Until a boy was born with the dream of peace. He devoted his life to it, spent years building treaties and growing his pack with the help of his sister- his Alpha,” Peter doesn’t open his eyes to acknowledge the surprised noise Stiles makes. “They accepted all that would devote themselves to their cause. They grew until their name was something of a myth on the tongues of travelers that happened to pass through their land. They grew strong and powerful and began to relax, began to forget all that they had done to get where they were,” Peter’s voice takes on a bitter edge, “They grew careless. They let weeds in their garden until they were overrun.”

“What happens next?”

“Fire,” Peter says simply. “A traitor walks in and burns the pack to the ground, killing everyone in sight.” His voice has gone flat.

“The boy?”

“The boy,” Peter starts, opening eyes to look at Stiles. Stiles has shifted to his side and is staring at Peter with heated intent. “The boy is a man by then. He… He runs.”

Peter can’t get himself to go on, to mention the way Talia had crumpled, shot and dying on the earth. He can’t get himself to explain the feeling of every pack bond snapping. The way it felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out all at once and it still couldn’t compare to the pain an Alpha feels when the bond is broken. Talia had begged him for death, begged him to run, begged for him to end it.

    “Did he go back?” Stiles asks breaking into the quiet. His voice has smoothed out, either from the distraction or because his body is almost done healing.

    Peter looks out, staring into the line of trees.

    “No,” Peter says finally, “he didn’t go back.”

    Peter wonders whether or not Stiles can hear the way his heart skips a beat at the lie. He can’t be sure, for when he looks back at Stiles, he sees his beta fast asleep, his face smooth and at peace.

 

* * *

  


    It occurs to Peter days later that he might have never told Stiles what he told him if he had not been close to death or at least that far deep in illness. Stiles is back to his normal self now, yipping and darting in and out of the trees barking playfully as they cover ground. Peter has gone silent and broody, but Stiles lets him be content just to have his bearings back. He doesn’t bring up the story and they continue on as nothing has happened.

    As they pass through the land Peter can’t help but wonder if Stiles knew. If he knew that Peter would never volunteer that information about himself- if Stiles saw the opportunity and took it. If he manipulated Peter, twisting the bond until Peter spilled all that was dark and private into Stiles.

    The bond is alight with Stiles’ euphoria. It’s a vivid mixture of relief, happiness, and a connecting thread of smugness. He catches the glint in Stiles’ eye when he runs to keep pace and can’t help his own responding emotions of pride and delight.

    He feels light and for a while, the jagged edges of Peter’s soul feel dulled and soothed.

 

* * *

****

    They find a lake. It is hidden away, a secret cove of sparkling water and lush dirt as fine as sand. Stiles wastes little time before he is stripped down to nothing and splashing through the water. Peter watches, amused, from the shoreline. At first, Stiles keeps splashing at Peter, trying to provoke him into joining in the fun, but Peter is too quick and dodges his beta’s attacks. Eventually, Stiles gives up and sinks back into the lake like a sea creature. He paddles around before floating on the surface of the water.

    “Are you going to be like this all day?” Peter questions, voice walking the line between condescension and amusement.

    Stiles flips him off and floats farther out.

    Peter chuckles and settles, digging his toes in the warm shoreline. He’s tempted to curl up for a nap, his wolf and the sun encouraging him. Instead, he sits and watches Stiles float across the lake. Maybe he’ll close his eyes for a moment.

    When he opens them again, the sun has shifted from its throne in the sky and his head is across Stiles’ lap, fingers dragging themselves through Peter’s hair. When he sees Peter has woken, he grins down at him, eyebrows wiggling. Peter blinks- sits up. Stiles’ fingers trail off of him but he lets him go and doesn’t comment on the flushed warmth of Peter’s cheeks. Peter tries to hide his disgruntled embarrassment from the bond, but Stiles’ pleased smile suggests he is not doing a good job.

    He laughs and rolls away. The birds flutter from the treetops, their song echoing in Stiles’ glee. His eyes light up as if struck by inspiration.

    He holds a hand up. “Listen.”

    Cupping his hands over his mouth Stiles lets loose a long trill of noise. It flutters into the air, the perfect imitation of a bird. Peter raises an eyebrow. The birds respond in turn, twittering their birdsong back to Stiles like a duet. He laughs, delighted.

    Stiles lets the call loose again, mirth coloring his eyes. The call bounces off the treetops before fading away. Stiles turns to Peter, mouth open as if to say something but then- a sound. A high-pitched noise, like a keening bird or the sharp echo of a ringing bell sounds. The noise echoes around them. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut and his face takes on a deathly pallor.

    “Peter,” Stiles whispers.

    Peter alerts immediately. The sound is unnatural. He leans into his beta’s fear, trying to soothe it across the bond. He reaches out to take hold of his arm and ask what’s wrong, but then a force like a boulder knocks him sideways and sends him hurtling into a tree. The wood splits around him and cuts into his skin.

    “Peter!” Stiles screams.

    Claws dig into his skin, sending stinging pain lashing into his body. Peter growls and shoves blindly. The weight rolls off of him, hissing as it retreats. Peter is up in a second, eyes flashing red and claws out. A boy- a creature- stands across from him, his pale face dripping blood where Peter managed to catch him.

    “Alpha,” he rasps around pointed teeth. His eyes are electric blue, not unlike his beta, but his claws are long enough to be considered talons. And his skin. It’s a deathly pale- so pale Peter can track the passage of blood through his veins. He looks like sickness trapped in a vessel.

    The bond is a spasming chain of panic. It’s a familiar panic. Peter’s eyes widen and he looks over to see Stiles standing at the shorelines, eyes wide and unmoving. Peter can’t tell if the chimera hasn’t noticed him yet or if he’s going after the more dangerous of the two. Either way, he stands between the two of them and as far as Peter is concerned it’s a good enough reason to tear him apart.

    “You have something of mine,” the chimera rasps. The chimera turns to stare at Stiles flashing his teeth like a weapon. Stiles’ face remains blank, but Peter can feel the panic attack brewing. He sends a rush of warmth down the bond, trying to snap his beta out of it. Now is not the time for Stiles to doubt himself.

    Peter keeps a cool tone. “I believe you’re mistaken.”

    The chimera turns back to him and cackles. A drop of blood falls onto his lip and his tongue catches it, painting his teeth crimson.

    “No, no, no!” The chimera yells hysterically. “No, no,” his pitch drops drastically and he turns again to cock his head at Stiles. “You’re mother tasted so delicious. I couldn’t let you go. No, no, no,” the chimera tuts. If possible, Stiles goes even paler. The chimera turns back to Peter and growls, spitting as he does so. “But now you’ve gone and ruined it! You smell like dog, like vermin, like rodent,” he howls. “Your fault,” he accuses, turning on Peter, claws raised. Peter is ready for the attack this time, is already crouched and ready to launch into battle, into fighting, into something he knows like flesh in blood. He almost sings for it. But then. The attack never comes.

    One moment Stiles is crouched and across from Peter and a second later the chimera is on the ground and Stiles is atop his chest, tearing into him. The chimera barely has time to react before Stiles attacks in full force. He’s an onslaught of claws and teeth and bleeding rage. The chimera howls and tries to fight back, but he is fighting a losing battle. Even as his claws catch on Stiles’ skin and clothes, tearing and cutting into him, Stiles doesn’t stop, doesn’t even seem to notice.

    When it’s over, Stiles stands slowly, adjusting his weight and staggering from foot to foot. He stands, panting for a moment, bright blue eyes foggy with bloodlust and rage before he slowly turns to face Peter.

    “You didn’t stop me,” he says, voice raspy and slurred around Stiles’ still extended canines.

    “Did you want me to?” Peter asks carefully.

    Stiles stares down at his bloodied claws. His bright blue eyes are flushed and aglow. He’s never looked more like a wolf, more dangerous and brilliant than this. Peter didn’t just pick out a survivor, his beta is a fighter. It warms something inside of him and he feels the pack bond meld and tighten between them.

    Stiles clenches his fist and when he releases it, his human fingers peak through, claws retracted.

    “No,” he admits. “I didn’t.”

****

* * *

****

    They sit in silence that night, only the crackle and pop of the fire cutting into it.

    “My mother was the head of my village,” Stiles breaks into the silence, sneaking his words and smoothly folding them into the quiet night and letting the light breeze carry them across the distance between them to tickle Peter’s ears. Stiles isn’t looking at Peter when he speaks. Rather, he pokes halfheartedly at the earth with a stick, drawing meaningless patterns into the dirt. Peter watches him carefully.

    “She decided who would come and who would go. Who would cook, who would clean, who would fight, and everything else. There wasn’t any part of the village life that she didn’t dictate. She knew everyone’s names, their birthdays and their preferences. She was incredible, she…” Stiles breaks off, voice trembling.

    Peter lets the silence return.

    “She was an incredible leader, but she could be over controlling. The men in the village were the warriors. They were the ones who trained day in and day out and kept guard at the edge of the village, all the time watching and waiting for danger, diligently protecting what was ours. And then…” Stiles’ gaze flickers over to Peter away from the ground and Peter thinks he can pick out guilt in his gaze.

    “And then I was born,” he says quietly. “And things changed. My father died and I was all she had. She didn’t want me out with the other boys training to be guards, so she kept me close and taught me how to lead, how to delegate, to settle disputes and plan and garden and prepare. But I just wanted to be like the other boys. I pushed. I just kept pushing. It was fine when I was young because the boys were just in training at that point. But once I came of age, things changed. She still wouldn’t let me go and we began to fight-” Stiles heaves a sigh, “-all of the time. Like a switch, we went from Mother and Son to Dictator and prisoner. And when it was clear I wouldn’t listen, she had to find other ways to punish me. She began to make the guards work harder to the point of collapse and then she’d tell me that it was my fault-”Stiles' voice trembled.

    “And then-” Stiles broke off abruptly.

    “You don’t have to finish,” Peter found himself saying.

    “No,” Stiles grits back, glaring into the fire.

    “I need to, I need….” He sucked in a breath before continuing, “And then she pushed them too far,” Stiles reveals. “A guard fell asleep on duty and a pack of chimera got through. They were rabid. Once the guard was broken, the village didn’t stand a chance. The guard was too weak and no one else was trained. My mother tried to get us to escape. We almost got out but a chimera caught up and attacked me.”

    Peter’s gaze flickers over to the bloodied corpse.

    “He was trying to get to me, but my mother interfered. I tried to help but I…” Stiles frowned. “There was nothing I could do,” Stiles voice colors with anger. “I had no training and no knowledge of Chimera. All of that knowledge was reserved for the guards and my mother. So I did the only thing I could.”

    “You ran,” Peter concludes.

    “I ran.”

Peter can see the weight of that decision on Stiles’ shoulder. Before, he couldn’t tell what it was that seemed to be weighing the boy down, but now it seemed obvious. His scent, above all else, dripped with the heady scent of his guilt and his anger and now more clear than anything else, his grief. It hung on him like a cloak distracting Peter from the deeper emotions wafting below.

    “And you’re still running,” Peter says.

    Stiles’ eyes narrow before softening into something warm and intangible.

    “I guess,” Stiles agrees, “but now I have you.”

    “Now you have me,” Peter repeats slowly testing how the words feel on his tongue.    

    “Yeah,” Stiles confirms, voice small but confident.

 

* * *

****

       Stiles is blabbering as usual, filling the space between them with comments about the clear day and the blue jays dipping across the treetops. The forest seems to be an endless expanse of dark lush greens, browns, and reds. There's no telling how long they've been on this particular length of the continent. If Peter focuses, he can almost smell the faintest brush of brine coming from the west. He imagines if they followed it, they would come across the ocean in a few day's time. The ocean has always been like that, even from this far inland, its salt and spray has caught the wind and left the trees dampened with the scent of it, tantalizing creatures like him and Stiles in the final hot weeks of spring.

       They had been running for days as wolves, just to see how long they could push themselves before they fell back into their bodies. They lasted three days. Peter probably could have gone longer, but Stiles looked about ready to keel over so he called for an end to the experiment.

        Now they are walking, passing the trees at a leisure pace, the ambling gait of two people walking for the sake of action rather than to get anywhere. Peter has allowed them to get lost, will continue to get lost in the land far away from Talia’s ghost. Stiles, for his part, seems content with their existence, no matter how aimless.

    “It would be nice to have wings. Not that being a wolf isn’t great-” Stiles turns to tell Peter as if this desire might offend him, “But then we would be able to spot all the great spots. Like the lake and the caves and…” Stiles trails off.

    Peter immediately senses when Stiles has stopped. He lets the amusement drop away from him and get carried off by the wind. Stiles stands still and is staring at a tree, face blank.

    “Stiles,” Peter prompts.    

    Stiles doesn’t acknowledge Peter and instead drifts closer to whatever he is seeing. Peter says his name again and feels a twinge of annoyance when Stiles doesn’t respond. He gets like this of course. Sometimes Stiles’ eternal monologue continues in his mind. He’ll drop in and out of speaking out loud as if Peter could follow Stiles into his brain and sit for a duration in the folds of his thoughts.

    He’s about to call his name again when Peter realizes that Stiles hasn’t stopped, but has shifted direction and is headed towards something- something Peter can’t see. He peers in the direction Stiles is headed and frowns when he realizes there’s a slight wavering quality in the tree line as if they were peering into the reflection of a forest cast on the surface of a lake.

    Dread and caution rise in Peter’s stomach. “Stiles,” he says, his voice warning. Stiles doesn’t listen.

    Peter reaches out, intent on pulling Stiles back from whatever force is pulling him forward, but his hand catches nothing but air. Peter doesn’t blink stupidly at the empty space, but it’s a close thing. The bond tingles between them, still strong and present, but glittering with vibration as if it had fallen asleep and was now shocking them as punishment.

    Stiles has simply vanished.

    “Stiles,” Peter calls. He holds his uncertainty close to his chest, unwilling to let it rise or take shape. He doesn’t have space in his body for that.

    A moment passes, and then Peter jolts forward, the bond tugging at him. He fights it for a moment, keeping his feet planted in the earth, but then it tugs him again, almost impatiently and Peter lets it pull him forward. The air around him shimmers between real opacity and a translucent reflection of the world through a lens.

    When he blinks, the world comes into focus and where once stood empty brush, Stiles sits with a human lying with his head in Stiles’ lap. Peter blinks again to make sure his eyes aren’t betraying him.

    Stiles locks eyes with him above the body.

    “His leg is broken,” Stiles starts. The boy lets loose a low groan, punctuating his statement. Peter doesn’t bother with a look to the boy’s leg lying at an unnatural angle. He could smell the boy’s pain the instant he passed through the strange barrier.

    “Stiles,” Peter warns, voice cold.

    Stiles has one hand wrapped around the boy's shoulder and the other petting soothingly at the boy’s short, black curls. Peter can already see what direction this is going.

    “His name is Scott. He told me before he passed out.”

    “Stiles.”

    “He said his village isn’t too far from here.”

    “Stiles, we need to leave.” Peter lets his Alpha influence seep into his words, satisfied when Stiles flinches, a clear sign he feels the pull to submit, to follow.

    “We can’t just leave him here,” Stiles grits out through clenched teeth. Peter tugs at the bond again, annoyed. Stiles doesn’t budge, but his eyes flash bright and blue, defiance strong in the set of his jaw.

    “We can and we will,” Peter growls.

    “You didn’t leave me,” Stiles argues.

    “You were dying. He’s got a broken leg. It will heal.”

    Stiles fumes. “This isn’t right.”

    “This isn’t a moral argument,” Peter snaps, claws extended. Finally, he lets his eyes bleed red and powerful. “We’re going.” Peter tugs on the bond again, this time with full force.

    Stiles gasps, eyes going wide and glassy. He jerks forward with the pull, falling into the boy’s body making him groan and twitch.

    “No-” Stiles chokes, curling around the boy. Peter growls, annoyed when he realizes he might have to physically pull them apart. Stiles is a fool if he thinks he won’t do it. “You’re hurting me!”

    “I’m helping you,” Peter spits. He’s about to charge, anger fully ignited when a new voice speaks up.

    “That’s enough.”

    Peter pauses, turns, and takes in the newcomer. A woman stands, tall and proud, dark curls framing her sharp-angled face. Her expression is hard, but her laughter lines and soft warm brown eyes betray her. Human. “Step away from my son.”

    Stiles looks uncertain, eyes wide and lost. They flicker to Peter as if to look for guidance before darting away as if the sight of him burned him. Slowly, he disentangles himself with the boy, the woman’s son, and props him against the trunk of a tree.

    “What happened?” she asks.

    Stiles wraps his arm around his elbow, shoulders hunched making him look smaller than he is. Peter feels another pang of anger, unrelated to his annoyance over Stiles’ reckless behavior. Now, he sees the shy human boy he must have been, obedient and powerless against the will of his mother. The urge to step forward or to send comfort down the bond blossoms in his chest but he tampers it, turning to the frustration bubbling at the surface of his mind, taking solace in the familiar heat of it.

    “He fell,” Stiles says, voice barely a whisper.

    The woman’s hard gaze turns to fall on Peter as if noticing him for the first time. He feels her assessing him, scoping him out not sure if he’s a threat or not. Peter meets her gaze head-on, his eyes still blood-red, but his claws retracted. She offers him a small smirk.

    “We’ll take them to the council,” she announces.

    “Wha-” Stiles starts but stops when his question is answered. Two rows of bronze-plated warriors emerge from the trees, appearing as if out of thin air. Peter’s wolf shifts with discomfort. He should have been able to sense them. The warriors flank the woman on either side, faces still and serious.

    At the center of their breast-plates is a symbol that makes Peter’s breath catch when he sees it. It is a black triskelion, raised slightly from the metal and is placed just above the heart. It stands for everything Peter has ever strived for. Pack. Tribe. Safety.

    “Welcome to Tribe Eight,” the woman smiles, grim and condescending in turn, “also known as Beacon Hills.”


	3. Chapter 3

The woman, Melissa, leads them to the council. The journey is short. The bronze warriors step forward as soon as it is clear the dispute has ended. They pull the boy, Scott, from Stiles. Peter walks next to Melissa while Stiles hangs back with Scott, the bond deadly quiet. He can feel Stiles’ glare on the back of his head, but he does not turn to acknowledge it. Together, they trek through the woods until they come upon a meadow. The sight they are met with nearly makes Peter’s heart skip a beat.

    The meadow isn’t a meadow, but the crest of a hill that leads into farmland which bleeds into the largest village Peter has ever seen. It can hardly be called a village. It is an intricate maze of buildings that sprawl over the hills, some structures the same huts Peter has seen in most villages, while some are towers that rise above the treetops, built from red brick and glittering with colorful symbols. Children and adults flush the scene, accompanied by farm animals and overrun with wildflowers.

    They pass through, the townspeople giving them little thought as they head towards a wide, long building with a rounded top. They enter through double doors with intricate symbols carved into the frame of the wood. Melissa leads them down the hall until they enter a room empty of all things except for a big wooden table with twelve seats around it. Only one seat is occupied. The man in question turns when he hears them enter, a small private smile gracing his face.

    Melissa bows. “Deucalion, I seek your counsel.”

    Deucalion’s eyebrows raise, his eyes passing over them, but not quite settling on any of them. Peter feels surprise filter, slow and syrupy down the bond as the man- the werewolf’s- blindness registers.

    “That is new,” the man says, humor coloring his tone. “Usually, it is the other way around.”

    Melissa’s eyes shoot over to Peter, but Peter keeps his face void of emotion.

    “I bring refugees,” she says.

    Peter’s expression sours. _Refugees._ The word settles with a sickly sensation. Deucalion, too, frowns.

    “And how would a couple of refugees-” now his eyes do find Peter and Stiles, “-make it past our border. And why would you bring them to me?” Deucalion's’ face remains casual, but his tone holds an unmistakable edge.

    “The border is not perfect,” Melissa replies, her words carrying an undercurrent Peter can’t follow, “it doesn’t matter how they got across. What matters is one of them helped my son while he was injured. He siphoned his pain and stood by his side until help could be reached.”

    Peter couldn’t help his own surprise flush across the bond. He turned to look at Stiles, sharply, but his beta wouldn’t look at him. His face was flushed. Peter never taught him how to siphon pain. It was a learned skill, that Peter never had a reason to share. The fact that Stiles knew how to do it, instinctively, shows a strength Peter hadn’t previously seen in his beta.

    Deucalion looks intrigued at this, but merely hums. “Very well. And what would you have me do with your heroes?” He lumps in Peter with Stiles without asking.

    “I would ask that you not turn away this gift,” the dangerous undercurrent returns to Melissa’s voice, “and allow them a grace period.”

    The request for a grace period, whatever that means, settles into a quiet room. Deucalion's fingers tap the arm of his chair, contemplative. After a short period of silence, his milky gaze settles on Melissa.

    “Alright. On behalf of the tribal council and as representative of tribe eight, I grant a 30 day grace period to our heroes. May the goddess favor them.” With that, Deucalion turns back to the scrolls stretched out on the large oak table, not sparing a second glance for the party.

    A satisfied smile sits upon Melissa’s smile. She turns to the warrior on her right.

    “Take Scott to the infirmary, I’ll tend to him in a bit.” She turns to Peter. “You two, follow me.”

    Peter’s wolf bristles at the command- bossed around twice in one day- but the more logical part of him sees that this woman, for whatever reason, has aligned herself with them. He is not so broken to overlook it, but he makes sure not to reveal anything as he follows Melissa out the door, Stiles following in tow decidedly glaring daggers into the back of Peter’s head.

 

* * *

****

    Stiles’ sullen silence doesn’t last long.

    “Where are you taking us?” he asks.

    Melissa doesn’t spare him a glance and continues to weave through the crowded street in long, sweeping strides.

    “Your tent,” she responds.

    “You sleep in tents?” His voice turns incredulous.

    She shoots him a side glance.

    “No, _you_ will be sleeping in a tent,” her gaze cuts to Peter who has been keenly watching her and observing the village and its inhabitants, “with him.”

    Stiles’ nose scrunches and he opens his mouth to ask another question but she doesn’t let him.

    “Visitors stay in tents. It’s tribal law. They’re not bad. You’ll only be here temporarily and I’m sure it’s better than wherever you have been sleeping,” she says, looking pointedly at Stiles.

    Stiles huffs.

    “Do we have to share?”

    Melissa raises an eyebrow. “You would prefer to be separated from your alpha?”

    Stiles gaze flickers back to Peter who has remained stoic throughout Melissa’s little introduction to the tribe and its villagers. Peter, who would have abandoned Scott, as injured and in pain as he was. Peter, who saved Stiles’ life and took him in as his own.

    “No,” Stiles admits, voice small but honest. “We’ll share.”

 

* * *

****

    The tension between them dissipates as they get ready for bed. Peter suspects that the beta isn’t good at holding grudges. He wonders how far he would have to stray from him in order to lose his favor. Peter himself remains quiet. Wonder and disbelief stew inside of him. He dedicated his life to building a pack strong enough to be admitted into the alliance. That he might have entered into a tribe so easily, as if the tribes weren’t swimming in myth and fantasy hadn’t quite settled in his brain. It had been so easy. The illusion barely fluttered before Stiles was striding into their territory. What did that say about the tribes? What did that say about Stiles?

    “I wasn’t sure they were real,” Stiles says breaking Peter out of his thoughts. “There’s so much chaos. I didn’t think it could be true.”

    Peter keeps his back turned from Stiles, adjusting his bed mat and fluffing the pillows that Melissa had brought them.

    “I didn’t either.”

   

* * *

 

 

    Melissa meets them in the morning, just as dawn is breaking. She enters the tent without warning, a long walking stick in hand. Peter is already awake and heard the sound of her deft, light footsteps as she approached. Stiles jerks awake, blinking away his startled expression. She casts her gaze upon him, at once comforting and authoritative. It reminds Peter of Talia- a mother’s eye.

    “Go get breakfast,” she says, tossing Stiles a wood bowl and a spoon. Stiles fumbles to catch it but manages to pull it against his chest before it rolls to the floor. “Your alpha and I need to talk.”

    Stiles’ expression sours. “I’m staying.”

    “It’s nothing confidential. Besides, Scott has been asking for you. I thought you might want to take breakfast with him.”

    Uncertainty beats down the bond, and Stiles searches Peter’s face. Peter squeezes assurance back down the bond and offers him a slight nod.

    “Peter...” he trails off. He looks to Peter again, as if waiting for him to protest, but Peter remains stoic. It might do him good to not have Stiles with him for a moment. His brain is a clouded mess, and his beta’s presence is doing more harm than good right now.

    “Go,” he commands, letting his eyes flash red for just a second, just long enough for Stiles to bristle, hurt flashing down the bond at his tone. He stands abruptly and stomps out of the tent.

    Melissa raises an eyebrow at Peter once Stiles’ footsteps have faded away.

    “You two have quite the relationship.”

    Peter shrugs. “He is young.”

    She nods, slow. “I suppose he is.” She turns at sits on Stiles’ abandoned bed mat, flopping down with a sigh, a stark contrast to the formality she put on display earlier. “He’s a special one.”

    “How so?”

    “Do you think the barrier yields to just anyone?”

    Peter thinks of the barrier, the glittering illusion that melted away before Stiles as if it was nothing. The myth tells of the tribes being protected by the goddess herself, the very magic that she bore into the world, lives in the soil and air of the tribes.

    Melissa takes Peter’s silence as a response.

    “The barrier let him in, but that isn’t even the strange part,” she fixes Peter with an intense look, “The strangest part is that the barrier allowed you to follow.”

    “We’re pack.”

    “But you aren’t tribe.”

    “And yet, the tribe let you pass. It can only mean that one of you belongs here. One of you is meant for us to keep. Deucalion would not have passed the grace period if he didn’t sense it.”

    “And what does that make you? Matriarch? Council member?”

    Melissa huffs a laugh.

    “I’m just a healer.” She says it like a private joke, one shared with just her and the land.

    “And me?” Peter hedges.

    “And you, Peter Hale-” Peter jerks, unable to contain his surprise at the mention of his surname, “- you are a survivor. But right now you can relax.” She says his name like it’s a given thing, like it's a truth that Peter was always supposed to have come here, that she has been expecting him. Like the burning and destruction of his pack was a mere detail, unimportant and useless to be swept under the rug like all the memories Peter made before he came here. Like they might all be forgotten.

    “I will never relax.”

    “So be it. The leaves will still fall.” She stands. “Come, eat, I will show you around.”

    Peter follows her, feeling both assured and more disgruntled than when he first arrived. He pushes his mind away from thoughts of Stiles.

   

* * *

 

       “You’re mixed,” Peter notes. No one else sits with them. Dining is communal and takes place outdoors on a series of long wooden tables. Children and elderly alike pile on the dark oak benches, clambering to shovel food into their bowls and mouths. Watching it is fascinating to Peter, the gaggle of noise and movement, the ways the bodies mold into each other, folding in and out of the fray as cooked chicken or roasted vegetables are passed from one end of the table to the other. It screams _pack_ in a way that makes a closed off part of Peter ache. He represses the feeling as it rises, ignoring its sharp spikes. He’s vaguely aware of Stiles’ curious honeyed eyes seeking him out from across the meadow. Without looking, he knows Stiles is stationed on a bench closest to the center of the dining area, surrounded by other children and teenagers. Scott is next to him, broken leg wrapped and propped up in the space next to him.

    “How do you mean?” Melissa doesn’t look up. She simply continues to divide her plate up into neat sections. It’s a stark contrast from the rest of the tables, but she doesn’t seem bothered.

    Peter gestures to the mass of creatures.

    “Werewolves and humans- you live together.”

    Melissa’s gaze flickers up, alight with mirth.

    “Keen,” she comments before returning to her plate. She doesn’t seem bothered by Peter’s presence, but she makes no effort to extend his welcome at her table.

    “It’s not usual.” It was in his pack, but most villages remained segregated like Stiles’ village.

    She appraises him again. “It is here.”

    “And yet, you sit alone,” he says it just to see if she’ll rise to his bait.

    She doesn’t.

    “Not alone, just separate.”

    Peter mulls over this.

    “Is that not the same thing?”

    “Beacon Hills has existed in peace longer than either of us have been alive. This is because each member of the tribe serves a purpose. Each child and adult is connected in a way that you wouldn’t be able to comprehend,” Peter thinks of Stiles and wants to disagree, but he lets her continue, “To think that me sitting here is any less significant than sitting at another table is ignorant of you.”

    Peter raises his hands in surrender.

    “And now I am enlightened.”

    Melissa’ lip twitches into something akin to a smirk.

    “And so you are.”

    A thought passes Peter’s mind.

    “And what if a tribe member dies?”

    Melissa’s gaze goes sharp and pleased as if Peter has passed some sort of test.

    “If a tribe member becomes sick or injured, or dies, the tribe becomes unbalanced. It can sometimes rupture the stability of the barrier or the land.”

    Peter’s gaze unintentionally finds Stiles again. Stiles meets his gaze head on as if he was waiting for Peter to look towards him. Peter looks away immediately and clamps down on the bond, not allowing anything to pass over.

    “But the tribal system would not have existed for so long if it was as easy as that. It finds ways to regain stability. With winter comes summer. With sickness comes health.”

    Peter understands what she doesn’t say. _With death comes life._

    “Do you always speak like this?”

    She winks.

    “It suits me, I think.”

    “I suppose it does.”

 

* * *

****

    Stiles avoids Peter. He spends his days glued to Scott’s side like a puppy. Scott, the sweet hearted but oblivious fool, flourishes under the attention, and the two develop an immediate friendship. Scott doesn’t notice the short and inconspicuous looks that Stiles shoots Peter whenever he happens to be passing them. Peter does. He sees them and lets them go unacknowledged.

    It should bother him- that his pack has taken up with another so easily. It should bother him but it doesn’t because at the end of the day when they’ve both spent their time apart, Stiles still tumbles back into the tent and more often than not the two of them will shift back into their wolves and curl up on Peter’s mat, sleeping side by side.

    Peter isn’t moved by Stiles’ petty grudge even as weak as it is. Perhaps it’s because Stiles doesn’t need a real reason to be with Scott. Perhaps it’s because he falls into Scott’s friendship as easy as he falls into the rest of tribe life. As the days pass, Peter sees Stiles unravel before him- the tension leaks from his shoulders and a lightness returns to his gaze. If he were anyone else, he might have mistaken Stiles for another human member of the tribe. He carries himself like one, like he’s forgotten the weight that the supernatural carry just by existing. Peter sees him laugh to point of crying when he’s with Scott and play with the children of the village letting them pile up on top of him after swinging them around near the sandpits.

Peter can never give him this- a life of happiness, of peace and protection. Any life with Peter will be one marked by its terror and uncertainty. But here… here Stiles could find peace. He could settle down and raise a family of his own.

    So it’s not really a decision, but an obligation when Peter begins to clamp down on the bond. He eases it closed at times so Stiles might have freedom from their attachment- from their pack. If Stiles notices, he says nothing.

****

* * *

 

 

    Peter begins to spend more time with Melissa. It is fitting, that Stiles might find himself latched with Scott and Peter with his mother. There is a cunning to her that Peter likes. It is not a demanding quality but presents itself to him when he least expects it.

    She puts him to work- makes him tend to patients in the infirmary and sort through supplies. He enjoys the quiet strolls through the infirmary ward. Today, they make the usual rounds, but then Melissa takes a sharp left and continues walking down a dirt path in the opposite direction of the village. She doesn’t turn to see if Peter is following. The path dips into a wooded area before a small, black tent comes into view. The tent is made of a dark material that seems to absorb the daylight. The edges of the tent are lined with candles that burn but don’t seem to release any smoke. Instead, the scent of magic, strong like incense permeates the air.

    Peter knows before he sees the body on the single cot in the middle of the tent that the human is dying. When he gets close enough to hear the man’s labored breathing it becomes more apparent.

    “He’s young,” Peter notes. Despite the white in the man’s short beard, he doesn’t appear to be past his fifties.

    “Alan Deaton. He’s our emissary.”

    Peter nods, humming. His pack was large, but they were never strong enough to attract an emissary. Emissaries are as chosen as they are born. Their natural ability to manage pack bonds and links to territory  make them a natural asset for packs and tribes alike. Their work, of course, takes energy and many emissaries burn out sooner rather than later. Magic can sustain them well enough, but magic is a finicky thing that bends away from the call of a spirit as much as it does towards.

    Peter watches as she folds the bandages into neat, smooth squares before tossing them into a pile with the others.

    “It doesn’t have to be another emissary,” she says.

    Peter raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Unlike Stiles, he doesn’t feel the need to take up his space with his voice or his spastic way of fiddling. Peter has spent years learning to be quiet and still and to let the other person in the conversation take up space with their words instead. He’s learned a lot of information this way, connived his way into the trust of people’s palms and then twisted their arms behind their backs when it was most convenient. Now, though, Peter remains quiet out of habit. Melissa has nothing he wants, not really.

    “Deaton’s spot in the tribe doesn’t have to be filled by another emissary. We have plenty of druids training for the position,” she says glancing at Peter out of the corner of her eye, brown eyes framed by a curtain of eyelashes- at once both pressing and patient. He imagines Scott has been on the receiving end of this particular side-eye many a time in his life.

    “Then what will you do with all the free space?” Peter asks, voice dry.

    Melissa’s eyes narrow. She snaps one of the clean towels at him.

    “Don’t patronize me. I’m trying to tell you to petition to the council for the empty spot.”

    Peter resists both a sigh and a grimace.

    “I know what you’re telling me, I just don’t understand why you aren’t having this conversation with Stiles.”

    This quiets Melissa.

    The silence holds them for a while. Melissa returns to folding and Peter takes to sorting out the different herbs. It is healing, but menial work.

    “We could use an alpha,” she admits finally. “What good does an untrained beta do us when we could have a full grown alpha? You would balance the tribe nicely.”

    It reminds him of something Talia used to say. _Why write a book when you can visit a library?_

    “And what about Scott?” Peter didn’t anticipate this hardness in Melissa. Perhaps he read her wrong.

    “Pack before blood,” she states.

    “Stiles is young, untainted. You could make a warrior of him, a healer, a druid- he has the spark,” Peter pauses, “my fate is written. You won’t have us both.”

    Melissa sighs and whips at him again with a cloth, her playful countenance returning. Now that Peter has seen the shift in her behavior, he won’t discount her again.

    “Just weighing my options,” she reasons.

    Deaton remains unmoved by their discussion and continues to breathe sickness into the tent.

   

* * *

 

    Peter returns to their tent earlier than usual. The sight of Deaton’s ill body sent shivers down his spine and left him feeling off kilter for the rest of day. Flashes of his pack, the human members sick and weak, plague his mind. Throughout the day, he swears he hears them- the sound of the younger children in his pack, calling his name and asking him to come play. When he turns to find the source of the voice, they are gone. They evaporate and Peter has to blink himself back into the reality. The real, sharp giggles from the tribe’s children cut into Peter’s skin and he finds himself taking refuge by the lake for the day, staring at his reflection in the clear water.

    Stiles is out late. He always stays for the campfire, huddling up next to Scott or the other tribe members and laughing that gaudy laugh of his- bright and obnoxious. Sometimes Peter wonders if he retires late in the night so he won’t have to see Peter, won’t have to talk to the damaged wolf he’s been bonded to, doesn’t want to listen to the thrashing of his nightmares.

    Tonight, Stiles wanders in quietly. Even with his new werewolf-enhanced agility and balance, Stiles has stubbornly retained a certain flagrance of motion from his time as a human. The contrast is too strong for Peter not to notice. Even in the dim lighting, he can see the furrow of his eyebrows and the dip in his smile. He looks like he did when Peter first stumbled upon him- detached and sunken.

    “You’re back early,” Peter comments, propping himself on his elbow. “It’s not even dawn yet.” His words hold heat. With all the emotions pooling in him with nowhere to go, Peter find it harder to keep his coolness. His wolf growls at him to release the bond, to abandon the rigidity that he’s set between them.

    Stiles doesn’t bother to look at Peter, and simply continues to shuck of his clothes and get ready for bed. The silence of the night settles between them, heavy and stifling. Usually, Peter would let it go, but tonight the slight rubs him the wrong way like an itch he needs to scratch.

    “Scott not putting out, then?” Peter eggs on, voice tainted with mockery.

    Stiles’ eyes shoot over to him, sharp and glowing with surprise and annoyance.

    “Don’t” is all he says.

    Peter’s blood boils. As if Stiles has the authority to command him with a single word.

    “No? Perhaps not then. I suppose Scott doesn’t have the time to deal with a temporary affair,” Peter sighs.

    Stiles pauses.

    “Temporary?”

    Peter smirks, knowing he’s caught Stiles’ attention.

    “You really think Scott is going to invest himself in a temporary fling? A fleeting friendship? No, Stiles, and you’re ignorant to think so,” Peter spits his words, his simmering anger always at a moment’s reach gripping them. “He wants you in the tribe.”

    Stiles blinks back, confusion coloring his face.

    “What do you mean?”

    Peter fixes him with an exasperated stare.

    “You know Stiles, I forget sometimes that you spent most of your life as a human.”

    “You know Peter, sometimes I forget how annoying and vague you can be,” Stiles seethes through gritted teeth.

    Peter grins. He picked a bad time to pick on Stiles. His hands have clenched around the shirt he’s holding. He wonders how long this tension has been hanging on him. Realistically Peter knows he should stop, he can feel the annoyance and confusion coming through the bond, confused as to why Peter won’t let this go, won’t leave him alone. But he can’t. He needs this. He doesn’t know why, but he does. He needs this fight.

    “What I mean, Stiles, is that we are living in a grace period. You little independent human villages aren’t versed in tribal law because you refuse to see the benefit of the tribal alliance system. Clearly, it wasn’t doing anything for your village,” Stiles visibly flinches, “But in werewolf tribal law, no new members are allowed into a tribe unless it happens by petition, and petition periods are only opened when a current tribe member has passed.”

    Stiles takes a moment to process this.

    “Deaton,” Stiles murmurs.

    “Yes,” Peter agrees, “Deaton. With Deaton sick do you really think Scott was just getting close to you for fun? You’re the perfect fit- you have no attachments:  no mate, no pack-” a wave of hurt slams down the bond, but Peter ignores it “-and you’re young and healthy. You would be a perfect addition to the tribe.”

    “No pack?” Stiles asks, voice tight. “What does that make us?”

    Peter takes a moment to assess the damage he’s done and the damage he’s about to inflict. Perhaps he was headed down this path all along. Despite what Melissa said, Peter isn’t fit for this tribe, or for any tribe really. He’s too broken- shattered in a way that no tribe could fix. He will never feel safe- not truly safe again- not as long as that safety is dependent on someone else. No, Peter can’t trust anyone else for that ever again. If he finds a way it’s going to be _his_ way. Stiles, can’t be a part of that. He meant it when he said Stiles is young and healthy. He might be reeling from his own trauma, but he’ll recover. He sees it everyday. He sees it in the way he folds into Scott and the other tribe members, adapting to the flow of tribe life like he was born for it. He doesn’t seem to notice all the strings he’s throwing out as he goes about his day, establishing connections with all the people he meets, growing his network of friends and connections. He’ll be just fine here. Which is why Peter can’t take that away from him even if it means losing him.

    He fixes Stiles with a cold look.

    “A convenience.”

    Stiles stands, a stricken look on his face. His expression convulses into something pained before receding into a strained frown.

    “You’re lying,” Stiles accuses.

    Peter sits up.

    “You want to check my heartbeat, Stiles? Why would I lie about this? I have been nothing but honest with you. When the grace period ends, I am leaving and you are staying.”

    “And why do you get to decide that?” Stiles demands, hot outrage clear in his tone.

    “Because I’m the alpha,” Peter says simply.

    This makes Stiles livid.

    “That’s bullshit, Peter and you know it,” he snarls. He throws the shirt down at Peter’s feet. Peter frowns, dismayed, and stands, folding the shirt and tucking it under his arm. “So, what? You’re just going to abandon me? After months of being pack-” Peter opens his mouth but Stiles holds up a finger, “No you don’t get to tell me we aren’t pack, because we are! I can feel the bond. I can _feel_ you, Peter. What don’t you get about that? You think I don’t know why you’re doing this?”

    Peter doesn’t get a word in.

    “And since when did you become all self-sacrificing? You’ll let me petition, but you couldn’t bother to stick around and try and save your own pack?”

    Peter’s snarls, eyes bleeding with red intensity before he can reign himself in.

    “You know nothing.”

    Stiles barks out a peal of bitter laughter.

    “I know enough about you to push your buttons. How many people can say that, Peter? You miscalculated if you thought I would fall for your manipulative little act. You think I haven’t seen this before? My mother knew every trick in the book,” Stiles is noticeably shaking now, “so don’t come to me with this bullshit and expect me to believe it.”

    They’re close now, standing inches apart and glaring. They’re panting heavy breaths full of emotion. Peter can feel Stiles’ emotions thrumming down the bond erratically, shifting and turning in on themselves all at once at a hummingbird pace.

    “Perhaps,” Peter murmurs, “You’re right. Perhaps I did make a miscalculation”

    Stiles’ eyebrows furrow.

    “I should have let you a die,” Peters asserts, sending the words with enough force, that Stiles will have to receive them as true. Stiles is right. There is no beating around the bush with him. If Peter is to deliver the blow, it has to be direct.

    Stiles’ breath hitches and he takes a step back, faltering.

    His emotions rage uncontrollably.

    Peter thinks he has finally won, thinks this will break whatever has developed between them for good. He waits for Stiles’ emotions to settle into something tangible like hurt or anger. Instead, Stiles remains stony, eyes wide and shining unnaturally blue. Beneath the surface, the bond whips back and forth, tearing into Peter from all angles. Peter frowns at the chaos and then tears his thoughts from the bond to take Stiles in.

    Stiles, who is shaking, pale and taught inches from him. Stiles who is not breathing. Stiles who is silent. Stiles who only gets like this, the quiet before the storm, right before a panic attack. Stiles stares at Peter, mouth gaping, seemingly surprised by the onslaught and as Peter is.

    Tremors wrack his body, but he remains stiff. Peter watches, concern bleeding into him, real palpating concern, but he stands stiff and unrelenting unsure of what to do. Does he leave him to settle? He almost wishes Talia were here- if only so she could stare at him from across the room judgingly. She could judge him out of just about any indecision.

    “P-Peter,” Stiles stutters.

    Peter opens his mouth to say… something, but then Stiles collapses forward and Peter’s body is moving, arms wrapping around his packmate, his beta, pulling him close to his chest and sinking slowly to the ground. His body is settling Stiles’ between his legs and his hands are petting at his hair and rubbing his back. His mouth is suddenly supplying apologies and soothing words and his heartbeat is steadying itself giving Stiles something to focus on.

    Peter does all this without thinking. It’s instinct. It comes to him like the desire to eat, to run, to howl at the sky. His wolf emerges almost without him noticing, purring with delight to have his pack so close, delighted to finally be able to reach out to soothe this wound.

    Peter closes his eyes, defeated. He shifts his hands through the short hairs at the base of Stiles’ neck.

    “You’re okay,” he murmurs, “You’re okay.”    

    Stiles trembles in his arms, but he’s breathing again, shallow intakes of breath. Faintly Peter registers wetness against his chest.

    They stay like that, wrapped up in each other, heartbeats synced and the air hot with emotion. Peter forgets how young Stiles is, how young he is to have gone through so much, forgets the way panic still chases him to ruin at moments. Peter was born into the life, knew from when he was little that the world is a dangerous place and to not eat is to be eaten. Stiles, on the other hand, lived in a human utopia, a lie fed to him by those he trusted. He doesn’t deserve the life Peter will give him. He deserves Scott and Melissa and the tribe and safety. He deserves protection.

    And that, Peter thinks, is what makes him so angry. He can never give that to Stiles, not on the path he’s headed. And what hurts about that, Peter realizes, with Stiles in his arms, breath evening out into a steady rhythm and body stilling with silence, is he wants to. He wants to keep Stiles, wants to promise him safety and to deliver. He wants Stiles, but he’s been through too much to keep him. Self-sacrificing indeed.

    The evening air holds everything else unspoken. The bond has settled, exhausted from being torn around, devoid and depleted of feeling. Peter adjusts them so they’re on Stiles’ sleeping mat and pulls a blanket over them. Stiles goes with the movement, melting further into Peter’s grip.

    The crickets and the distance background noise of campfire singing are beginning to lull Peter into a quiet state. Sleep drifts closer, his brain too exhausted to think further about the issue at hand and his wolf content to have his pack in his arms. Peter feels his eyes flutter shut. The night settles into them, nearly covering them completely before Stiles speaks up.

    “It wasn’t a miscalculation,” he murmurs, voice wispy with sleep. Despite the panic and the yelling, Stiles’ words ring true.

    “No,” Peter agrees, “It wasn’t.”

    They close their eyes and sleep.

 

* * *

****

    Things between them cool. Stiles still sticks to Scott like a lost puppy, but he also stops avoiding Peter as much. He shifty gazes turn into long, drawn out stares, unrelenting even when Peter turns to meet them.

   

* * *

 

****

Peter wakes from a nightmare and Stiles is right there. He is sitting inches from Peter’s body, watching him as he reels from the flashing images in his mind. Peter is dismayed to find that his hands are trembling lightly and a thin sheen of sweat has broken out across his body. Peter hasn’t really talked to Stiles since their fight, so he doesn’t know what to make of Stiles’ wide eyes, glowing blue and bright in the moonlight. He can’t begin to guess how long Stiles has been watching him for.

    “I just got back,” Stiles murmurs, answering his question.

    Peter jerks a nod.

    “What were you dreaming about?” he asks.

    Peter cocks an eyebrow at him.

    “Can you imagine?” Peter means for it to come across as sarcastic, but in the dark of night and in the solitude of his recovery it comes out quiet and honest.

    “I’m sorry,” Stiles starts. His gaze bores into the meat of Peter. “I wish I could…” he trails off. He’s in one of his contemplative moods, where his emotions rattle sporadically across the bond in flashes, too unstable for Peter to identify. Peter is ready to tell him to go to sleep when suddenly Stiles’ face is on top of him, lips pressed to lips.

    Peter opens his mouth in surprise and Stiles presses the advantage, taking his lower lip between his. For a moment, Peter’s mind is a serene place, devoid of thought or reason. But then, like always, the world regains its color and depth and he is pushing Stiles off of him with a hard shove.

    “What do you think you are doing?” Peter presses, voice quiet, deadly.

    Stiles stares back at him, seemingly unfazed besides his now swollen lips and bright blue eyes. The glow of the moonlight gives his pale skin an ethereal glow.    

    “Kissing you,” Stiles replies blankly.

    “Stiles,” Peter says.

    Stiles breaks eye contact then, eyes shifting to the side of their tent. When he faces Peter again, they have returned to their normal color, too dark for Peter to properly register. He suspects he would find more vulnerability on display.

    “Did you know,” Stiles begins, voice thin, “that the council will accept two petitioners if the petitioners are mated or married.”

    Stiles fixes him with a hard stare as if daring Peter to lie. Peters holds the silence for a moment, debating on how to break it. He is too weary to have a repeat of the other night. He doesn’t want to fight with Stiles anymore.

    “I did,” Peter settles on after a pause.

    Stiles nods, short and jerky as if reassuring himself before he launches himself at Peter again. Only, now Peter is ready. He catches his arms and forces him back, keeping him at a distance, grip tight enough to bruise if Stiles’ was still human.

    Stiles frowns at this, eyebrows furrowed.

    Peter eyes him carefully.

    “I don’t think we’re having the conversation you think we’re having.”

    “Let me kiss you,” Stiles insists. The words he doesn’t say, _Let me mate you_ , are enough for Peter.

    “What makes you think that would be something I want?”

    Stiles frowns, hurt flashing, for an instant, down the bond.

    “You want in the tribe,” Stiles says, voice wavering with false confidence.

    Peter cocks an eyebrow.

    “And at what cost?”

    “Any cost,” Stiles says, voice sure.

    Slowly, Peter loses his grip on Stiles’ wrists. Stiles’ arm flop to his sides, pliant under his touch.

    “Not anymore,” Peter admits honestly. In the wake of his nightmare, he can’t keep the earnest color out of his words. They would stand strange and unseemly against the night if the conversation they were having wasn’t already strange and unseemly in its own regard.

    “I don’t want to mate with you, Stiles.”.

    Stiles frowns.

    “But you want in the tribe?”

    Peter hums and disentangles them completely, tucking himself back against the edge of their tent. He has a feeling the question has more layers than he can see, that his response might change everything. He chooses his words with care and says, as gently as possible,

    “Not like this.”

    “Then how-” Stiles cuts off, pulling whatever words he was about to release inwards again. The bond pulses between them, ripe with energy. Stiles’ face is an uneven balance of anger and confusion. Peter reasons that he is the source of one if not both of the warring emotions.

    He pulls away, finally, staring at Peter, his face burning with resentment. He slips away without another word. Peter watches him go, lips still warm with the remembrance of touch. He is tucking the regret away before it can reach the surface.

 

* * *

****

    Alan Deaton dies in his sleep. A week-long mourning period follows his death. The children do not go outside and play and the common grounds are empty aside from when someone is passing from one home to a next. They flutter like bees in a hive into different homes, sharing food and saying prayers for the druid’s gods.

    Peter watches from the sidelines, curious by the procession. Stiles trails behind Scott, not leaving his side. At first, he still returns to their shared tent, sneaking in so late in the night that it the sky is already beginning to bleed sunrise. He does so silently and Peter remains still as if they aren’t both tuned in to every exhalation the other lets out. But then… Stiles doesn’t come back one night.

    The next day, while Peter is eating breakfast, Scott approaches him, voice contorted with obvious discomfort. Stiles is nowhere to be seen. Dread fills his stomach at the sight of the floppy-haired boy, eyes wide and puppy-like. His wolf paws at his insides, demanding to look for Stiles.

    “Hello Peter,” Scott greets him. His discomfort is a palpable thing.

    Peter merely raises an eyebrow, letting his annoyance color him.

    “Uhm. Stiles wanted me to tell you that he won’t be sleeping in your tent any longer. He has decided to stay with me.”

    Peter blinks, stunned. It’s not until the words hit does he realize he’s been itching for a fight, that he was hoping there was someone, something to be torn apart by his claws. His wolf howls mournfully inside of him, angry with himself for pushing his pack away, angry that Stiles is letting him. Despite his efforts, despite his plan, Peter can’t help but feel blindsided.

    “I see,” he says finally, the words coming out only slightly strangled. “And would Stiles like to report anything else to me?” He asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

    Scott just shakes his head, grimacing.

    “That’s all.”

    Peter glares and Scott scurries away.

    That night, Peter gets very little sleep.

****

* * *

 

 

    Now that Stiles officially doesn’t want to see Peter, he can’t help but want to seek him out at all times. His wolf is a dejected, angry mess, tugging at Peter to correct the limp quality of his pack bond. Peter can feel it thinning with neglect- all the excess emotion diverging to each respective sides pulling it taught. It might snap if they continue like this. Peter might snap. He needs to leave soon if he’s going to leave at all.

    Even with the battered state of the bond, Peter can feel Stiles moping. He can feel his quietness- the same quietness that defined their first year together. He recedes inside of himself, only letting Scott near. The rest of the tribe is in mourning, so little notice is given to Stiles as he falls into silence.  

    Only Melissa seems to notice the distance that has grown between Stiles and him. Her keen eyes miss little.

    “There are certain circumstances,” she says, “That would permit more than one petitioner.” They are in Deaton’s tent again. Deaton’s body has been transported to another tent for dressing and preparation for the funeral. They remain, cleaning the tent and burning incense and herbs to clear it of his druid energy.

    Peter doesn’t react. He’s barely focused on the task at hand.

    “If you and Stiles were mated, for example-”

    “No,” Peter cuts her off, voice heavy.

    Melissa pauses and purses her lips. She fixes Peter with a dismayed look, her brown eyes rich with pity.

    “Haven’t you suffered enough?”

    Peter grimaces. He thinks of the echoes of his pack’s screams and the burning of his territory- his home. He just shakes his head.

    “It could never be enough.”

   

* * *

 

 

    Nightmares wrack Peter’s sleep. He hasn’t been able to properly sleep since he began cutting the bond, but it’s been even worse since Stiles left. It feels as if claws are raking themselves against the inside of his throat again and again. He heaves with the force of it, shaking alone in his tent.

    Eventually, Peter feels himself bleed into consciousness. It is still dark out and his body is still trembling- taught and exhausted from his own mind. He can feel a light sheen of sweat on his skin, but more than that- his breath catches.

    Stiles sits on the mat across from him. His head is cocked to the side, beta eyes glowing bright and blue in the night. Peter stares at him, shaking and panting, but says nothing.

    “Did you know,” Stiles says very quietly, “that you have no control over the bond when you’re dreaming? It turns out cutting the bond doesn’t work so well when you’re drowning in your own terror.”

    Stiles’ words aren’t mean. They’re quiet and contemplative. Stiles waits, but Peter says nothing, gives him nothing in response. Stiles nods, gives a flicker of a wistful smile before he shifts and pads over to Peter before dropping, unceremoniously, on top of him.

    A surprised laugh gets stuck in his throat but doesn’t quite find itself made real. Slowly, Peter wraps his arms around the wolf, and pulls him down until he is cradling his beta. His fingers brush through his fur. The feeling of Stiles’ heartbeat so close to him, settles the wolf in him and the distraught, unruly state of his mind. He focuses on its steady pulse until his body stops trembling and his breath evens out. Stiles remains still and calm throughout all of it.

    In time, they both ease into sleep.

 

* * *

****

    The next night Stiles sneaks in again, already shifted into wolf form, and curls up to Peter. The relief Peter feels is palpable. He wants to make a witty remark, to say something, but all that comes is,

    “Thank you.”

    Stiles huffs in response, but Peter can feel the contentment bleed across the bond, even in its fragile state. It has already begun to mend itself, stitching up the vulnerable, bleeding parts of it.

 

* * *

****

    They have breakfast together the next morning. Scott and Melissa are both oddly missing from the scene, so they have the morning to themselves. The mourning week is coming to a close and tonight they’ll conduct the ceremonial burning and other tribe rituals. From what Peter can gather, tonight will be a celebration rather than a sad farewell. To honor death, life must also be honored.

    Such is the circumstance that Peter finds himself alone with Stiles at breakfast. They eat in relative silence until Stiles speaks up.

    “I’m going with you.”

Peter puts his fork down.

“Stiles,” Peter starts, but Stiles just shakes his head.

“I already told Deucalion.”

Relief and exhaustion battle inside Peter. He doesn’t want Stiles to stay here, but he also doesn’t want Stiles to be in danger. He is so tired. So tired of this push and pull.

“Okay,” he manages to say. He punctuates it with a soft squeeze down the bond.

Stiles slips a hand over his and something deep in Peter settles.

 

* * *

****

    They’re grace period comes to an end. Deaton’s funeral passes and it is time for them to move on. Melissa and Scott come to the tent on their penultimate day to offer them blessings and gifts for the road. Scott mopes about the tent, whispering to Stiles and sending Peter contemptuous glares. Eventually, Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls Scott out of the tent, mentioning something about one final swim in the river before they’re gone.

    “I wish you weren’t settling for this,” Melissa mutters.

    “I am not settling.”

    She sighs and puts the herbs down.

    “I know. It does not mean I do not wish it.”

    Wordlessly, Peter pulls her into an embrace.

 

* * *

****

    That night, they are celebrated. The tribe brings out their finest wares and food for them to feast on. Toasts are given, and dances are had. Just this once, Peter allows him to be pulled from the sidelines and partake in the campfire activities. He drinks from the goblets being passed around, the wine dark and seductive. He lets Stiles’ laughter bouey him and dances with Melissa and dances with Stiles and dances through the night.

    When the night begins to lighten, Peter and Stiles wander back into their tent one last time. Stiles is giggling- his lips stained red and his eyes like liquid gold. They both tumble onto Peter’s bed mat. Peter laughs along with him, but then abruptly stops when Stiles takes off his shirt.

Peter watches, uncomprehending, as Stiles climbs into his lap. He remains still, waiting. Stiles raises a hand and places it on the side of Peter’s face, finger pressing lightly into his cheek, caressing the rough skin there.

    “Okay?” he asks, voice low.

    Peter doesn’t move, but he sends his ascension down the pack bond. Stiles’ mouth quirks up in the corner.

    “Okay,” he breathes again before leaning forward. His other hand comes to rest against Peter’s chest and then Stiles’ lips are on his Peter’s. For a moment, they hold still- lips pressed against each other, neither of them moving to further the movement or recede from the connection. They hold it still as if knowing regardless of whatever should happen after it, this moment could be preserved as innocent and untouched by rejection or acceptance.

    But then-

    Peter jerks back.

    “Stiles-” he starts, but he doesn’t get far.

    Stiles’ fingers press into his cheek meaningfully and he fixes Peter with a hard look.

    “I’m not doing this because you’re my packmate, or because I feel obligated or because you saved my life.”

    Peter appraises the boy- the man - in his lap.

    “I want you. Everything, Peter. I want whatever doom it is you think you have to suffer. I want your weaknesses and your strengths and everything else. I-” Stiles pauses, contemplative, eyes skimming over Peter’s as if noting the panic and surprise there, “I want you,” he settles on.

    Peter remains unmoving and stony.

    “Stiles,” he tries again, but Stiles is unrelenting.

    “I’m going with you tomorrow. We’re going to find land that we can call our own and then we are going to build the biggest pack in the history of all packs. The council will have to admit us into the alliance once they see how strong we are. We’ll be a family.”

    Family. It’s an outdated word. Blood clans have stopped mattering since the establishment of the twelve tribes. Like Melissa said, _Pack before blood._ But there was no mistaking what Stiles was saying. They wouldn’t be like Stiles village or Peter’s pack or even Beacon Hills, they would be a _family_. An outdated concept for two people that have long been outdated, for two people that should have been long dead.

    Peters lets out a huff of laughter before pulling Stiles down so that they are nose to nose, foreheads kissing and lips inches apart.

    “Family, then?” he asks, voice lighter than it has been in months.

    Stiles grins, sharp and bright, his honey eyes burning themselves into a whiskey fire. He closes the gap between them and kisses Peter.

    Peter is still cackling as he kisses back, not bothering to correct Stiles’ sloppiness or zeal. He feels his beta’s emotions coming down the bond, _happy happy happy._ He doesn’t need to speak to send his own feelings back.

    No words would be enough.

****

Fin

****

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a pinchhitter. I really ended up enjoying this universe and exploring all the ins and outs of the characters and the land. If people are interested in reading more from this verse, please let me know! There's a lot I didn't get to explore that I wish I had more time for. If people are interested in what comes next, or Stiles' pov, or anything else, let me know. Additionally, you can come bother me on tumblr @merlinthepoet. I am not super active, but I love getting questions about my writing. 
> 
> Thank you again for giving this a go. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and thank you to everyone who participated in this reversebang. It was so much fun. If you have a moment to leave a comment or response, please do. 
> 
> What did you enjoy? What was your favorite line? Favorite scene? 
> 
> Thanks again.
> 
> tumblr:
> 
> [merlinthepoet](https://merlinthepoet.tumblr.com/)


End file.
